


Long since my heart has been breaking

by Antigone_Sycamore



Series: I who dreamed wildly and madly [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, One Shot, Post 8x3, Post Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 15:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18719542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antigone_Sycamore/pseuds/Antigone_Sycamore
Summary: It is the silliest thing that threatens to undo her in the end.





	Long since my heart has been breaking

> Long since my heart has been breaking  
>  Its pain is past  
>  A time has been set to its aching  
>  Peace comes at last.
> 
> E.G.W.&N.

It is the silliest thing that threatens to undo her in the end. 

Podrick has handed her a flask of water. Impossibly cool and silky down her throat. She takes three large gulps. Chokes on the last. The violent coughing that follows finally brings her to her knees. She’s struggling to breath. Retching up water and bile. It has been hours since she last ate. But her tired body won’t stop retching up water and bile in front of Winterfell’s main gate where they’ve been burning bodies since the break of dawn. Her throat burns like hell and her eyes sting with smoke and unshed tears. Her ribcage, still tight and heavy after she’s discarded the upper parts of her armor in the fields, burns like fire with every violent heave. Bruised and beaten flesh beneath her thin linen tunic. 

A hand comes to rest at the small of her back. Firm pressure along her spine. Rubbing up and down in a recurring pace.

It takes her another moment. Her body painfully heaves yet again without her consent but nothing else comes up. When she can finally breath again, hot angry tears are burning their way down the caked dirt and blood of her cheeks. Clouding her vision. Brienne wipes at them dispassionately.

It is Jaime, of course, who guides her to sit down. Firm pressure of his fingertips along her spine. The stump of his crippled arm gently brushing along her shoulder. The useless golden hand long discarded beneath the breast plate of her armor somewhere in the fields. She thinks about bear pits and debts. His courage and his many vices. Bound to her in this impossible moment all alike.

There is nothing to lean on in the open field among the dead. Just bones and limbs and gore. A terrifying heap of nightmares come to life. For a moment all she can do is sit among them. Battered and beaten. Slumped over and shaky as her lungs drag in the icy cold Winterfell air. 

Jaime’s good hand leaves her back and hands her the flask again.

„Drink,“ he tells her as he unceremoniously drops down beside her in the field. Sitting too close. His good arm pressing into her side.

Brienne weakly shakes her head. Eyes fixed on the blood drenched soil beneath her feet. 

„Drink,“ he repeats softly. But his tone bears no argument. Brienne flinches but takes the flask from him in tiered exasperation. Tries one tiny gulp. His hand returns to her back. Continues its soothing pace up and down her spine. His thumb tracing along her sore muscles. 

She looks at him then. His brows are drawn into a worried frown but the deep emerald green of his eyes is clear against the cold winter sunlight. They meet her gaze willingly and unguarded. As he has since he appeared by her side in the training grounds before dusk. A man who, for all of his vices, now wears his heavy heart on a handless sleeve for everyone to see. All she has to do is reach out and catch it.

Yet again without her consent or her conscious doing, her tired body is suddenly leaning on him. Heavy against the warmth of his side. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder as his arm tightens around her. Brienne closes her eyes and lets herself rest for just a moment.


End file.
